


Honk If You're ;)

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: And also dumb, Husbands, M/M, and married, honk if you're horny, oh they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 20:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18924730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: A very silly little thing that took WAAAY too long to write for CommunionNimrod for sharing that hilarious pic of a truck with "Honk if You're Horny" on the back and I thought, well? What if Hermann was the one who honked, huh?Implied sexual content in the Future, Newt just gets flustered in the Now.





	Honk If You're ;)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CommunionNimrod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunionNimrod/gifts).



Newt’s feet go up to the dashboard with the same fluid, automatic movement as sliding on his seatbelt. He earns a throat clearing from the driver’s seat, which might as well be an automatic response as well.

“C’ _mon_ ,” he groans. He picks his feet up and sets them back on the floor. “I’m not gonna scuff it.”

“You have,” his husband returns and pointedly wipes at the dashboard where a little dirt has fallen off the heel of his boot.

“That was there before.”

“It wasn’t.”

Hermann’s probably right. The guy did a seriously detailed check of the car before he purchased it and, okay, fair, but still.

“Today was _annoying_ ,” Newt says through a whine. “Jacobson’s a dick.”

“You just don’t like him because he won’t laugh at your jokes.”

“That’s on him. That’s not me! His skull’s too thick, man. You could bust down a wall with Jacobson’s head.”

Newt leans on the armrest, invading Hermann’s space as he pulls the gearshift to put the car into reverse. His hand slides over Newt’s shoulders to gain leverage so he can watch the rearview window. All these dainty, careful procedures to pull out of the parking lot are going to go out the window in 0.05 seconds when they get onto the main drag and their nice little gray car takes off like a fucking bullet.

Maybe that’s why Newt puts his feet on the dashboard. He’s ready to brace himself.

Not at all truth. He just likes sitting that way. He tucks his ankle up under his opposite thigh to have _something_ close to comfort and earns a little displeased throat clearing again. This time? This time, he doesn’t budge, and Hermann’s fingers flick through his wavy hair on their retreat to the steering wheel.

_Is he making fun of my hair?_

Newt noticed a few extra “light” strands there near his temples and he smashed them down with his fingers after shaving this morning in the mirror. It had basically ruined his entire day and then _Jacobson_ had to start a fucking _debate_ with him before he could get to the Physics department to pick up Hermann and now they were late getting on the road and the whole day is off because Newt is old and dying and dead.

Silver foxes can be hot!

Not that he _is_ one!

“Are you making fun of my hair?” Newt asks aloud, stuck in his spiral. “I’m not – I don’t need to dye it. I’m not – _shut up_ , Herms! Dude, it’s not. It’s not stress! Okay! Silver was, like, _in_ for a while, okay? Shut up!”

“I haven’t said anything.”

Hermann smiles and angles their car to the road.

“You know I like your hair.”

“God, shut up,” Newt mumbles, folding his arms over his chest before he grabs the seat belt and wraps his fingers tightly around it.

Three-two-one blast off.

It’s sorta kinda scary hot how fast Hermann is, how well he handles the wheel. He’s all long limbs and bony wrists and little glasses chain and big soft cardigans and fuck anybody who thinks “well, this dude’s got a limp and a cane, can he _even drive?_ ” And their answer is tire marks on the pavement. There was that one time Hermann begrudgingly went out to the country and showed off some of those stunt driving skills he picked up after a quick course at nineteen, obviously as an insult to Lars but he swore it was to help with his admission into the Royal Airforce.

Apparently, he could do some crazy shit with a prop plane back in the day.

Newt never ever _ever_ in _ever_ wanted him to demonstrate that. He enjoyed the thrill of his stomach meeting his racing heart in a mad dash at the back of his throat on the ground and couldn’t possibly imagine what would happen if they were up in the sky. Where gravity could pull them back to Earth like a greedy lover and fucking annihilate them. No. Thank. You.

The worst part – the best part? – about Hermann’s driving is he makes it look so damn effortless. All the tension dribbles out of his shoulders. Sometimes he leans against the window, his knuckles casually propping up his head before he has to take the wheel with both hands and whip them about a corner. Something primal, something perfect happens when he drives.

It is really fucking hot.

Hermann hates when Newt points this out.

Still true, though.

Of course, the deceptive little jaunt, the racehorse start comes to a begrudging halt as they meet the build-up of traffic down the street. Usually they have this all timed out just right that they can escape the city before dinner’s rush hour and be home in time for a late tea. Late tea for Hermann. Newt still only likes the stuff on occasion and not nearly as sweetened as his husband does. He has promised to stop drinking red bulls, even if that means he’s just switched over to Bangs. Trading one evil for another.

When they get home, Newt usually puts on a record – vinyl, baby, that’s where it’s _at_ – and he’ll lose his tie over the back of the couch. He wiggles his hips and skates on his socks through their living room, enticing Hermann to join him. Sometimes, the softie, he even gets Hermann to slow dance with him, and Newt rest his cheek on Hermann’s shoulder, ignoring papers that need to be graded or that journal they’re trying to submit or the way Hermann’s fingers tick so needlessly over the little shiny patch of silver on his temples oh my _god_ Hermann stop pointing it _out_ and let me just suck your fucking—

“Bastard,” Hermann hisses, slapping his steering wheel. Hermann has this way of saying the word “ _bastard_.” It slips out of him with this bile. It takes up his whole mouth in an oily hatred. He pushes the second syllable with a hard German slant to it, like he can’t help it.

They slam on the breaks.

“Sorry.”

“Can’t help the traffic, man,” Newt says, sinking back into the seat. His foot comes up to meet the dashboard, hovers a second, and goes back down because he can just _feel_ Hermann’s eyes on him. “I told you. Jacobson’s a dick.”

“He didn’t make the traffic, darling.”

“He Bogarted my time—”

“’Bogarted,’” Hermann repeated, shaking his head. “Honestly.”

“Or whatever, just to tell _me_ about Vaughan’s fragmentation methods like we all don’t know it was an accident, and some might even say miracle _if_ they were inclined to say something, which Jacobson was, which really fucking steams me, right? It wasn’t. It was _awesome_. But don’t go saying miracles when you mean discoveries or whatever. It was working in new acidic water baths to make adjustments and I don’t have to tell you—”

“You don’t, but go ahead,” Hermann says, setting his cheek on his knuckles as they’re forced to a complete stop in the road. Cars blocked on all sides. Hermann sighs and flicks his eyes over to Newt, giving him a smile before he turns his attention back to the road. “We certainly won’t.”

“Right? Fuck Jacobson.”

“No.” Hermann inches them forward to keep a snobby black car from getting ahead of them. “Zipper in like a decent man!” he shouts uselessly at the window and returns to knuckling the steering wheel as he shifts his weight further to the left.

There’s a truck up ahead, the window dirty, something scrawled on the back of it. A blue car keeps blocking their view—Honda? Maybe? Newt doesn’t know makes and models like Hermann does. He _knows_ they drive a Volkswagen and, worse yet, it’s a manual. Newt does motorcycles and the cousins of motorcycles in all shapes and sizes. He’ll do an automatic. He never figured out gear shifts for a car. And he doesn’t need to, because Hermann’s amazing at it. It’s only the stop-and-go traffic that really fucks with his knee and sometimes he pulls himself out of the car by the roof with all his weight, taking a moment for everything to stretch back out before he can walk, but he’s still amazing.

Newt glances over and wants to kiss the little frown on the corner of his mouth. He leans on the armrest between them and presses his left arm flat to Hermann’s shoulder, enjoying the simple pleasure of his existence. He smells a bit like coffee and cigarettes today. They’re getting close to midterms and Hermann thinks he’s sneaky, smoking outside the building after his lecture an hour before Newt picks him up.  

“Yeah. People are the worst, Herms.”

“They are,” Hermann grumbles back.

“So anyways.”

“Anyways.”

“Jacobson, right? He stops me to tell me—”

“You’ve said this part already.”

“Well, whatever! Like I’m not tapped into coral reefs conservation methods, which we all know was set back by – what the fuck.”

The blue car – Honda, definitely. It has an H on the back! That’s a fucking Honda…Hyundai…shit– swerves closer, attempting to take Hermann’s nose off. They both sit straighter in their seats, tossing up their right arms in unison.

“Hey, watch it!” Newt shouts.

“ _Imbecile_!” Hermann answers in kind. “Bloody _wanker!_ ”

“Babe,” Newt says with a little snort, sinking back again now that Hermann’s road rage has come to a head to slaughter every Honda/Hyundai/Hoyota (that one’s definitely wrong?) on the strip. Hermann snips again and Newt shakes his head, brushing his hair out with his fingertips a few times. He rolls his eyes as his British-Fronting Husband trundles on in his frustration. They land on the back of that pick-up truck.

_Honk if You’re Horny ; )_

It’s not like he can help it, but Newt covers his mouth to stifle the knee-jerk reaction of a laugh. More a snort. It’s so stupid! The nice curly font smacks Newt in the face, this plainly juvenile, funny thing. It’s a quick hit endorphins kinda funny, easily forgotten. He amuses himself with it for a hot second, an impulse to reach over and honk the horn. He’s even reaching for it when Hermann suddenly gives the wheel two quick taps.

Now, _okay._ They’re in traffic and Hermann is never shy about using his horn to flush out the assholes in front of them. That’s expected. What’s not expected his Hermann leaning back in his seat, two fingers delicately covering the corner of his mouth where he’s trying his hardest not to smile.

Most people who meet Hermann see the sweater vests, the oxfords, the cardigans, the bad haircut, the glasses, the talk, the scowl, the eyes, the everything, the _everything_ and assume he’s this stuck-up prude with a secret professor kink if they’re lucky. He’s a rule-following, form-filling-out, reports-on-the-desk yadda yadda Certified Bastard. True. Except for the professor kink, but Newt makes up for that.

Most people don’t know Hermann’s a goddamn cheeky bastard.

He’s biting the pad of his index finger now to keep his stern façade.

Newton thinks he’s stopped breathing at some point. He has. He takes in a big gulp of air and blurts out: “Did you _just_ —?”

Hermann slides his gaze towards Newton’s lifting an eyebrow. There’s a tiny peak of his tongue sliding over the tip of his finger while he continues to cover his mouth. Newt lunges for him, reaching for his face to kiss him, when the seatbelt yanks on his shoulder.

“No, not ‘till we get home,” Hermann says, back to serious, both hands on the wheel and inching them forward. But that stupid tongue swipes his bottom lip and he pulls just a tiny portion of it in between his teeth.

Newt’s lost for words. He tries to lounge back in his seat, act all casual and aloof like Hermann. Play it _cool._ He’s hot as a fucking furnace and drums his fingers wildly on his kneecap. His foot goes up to the dashboard and Hermann clears his throat. But, like, c’mon. Newt’s foot stays up until Hermann’s hand slides over the fabric of his jeans, grips his inner thigh, and stays put.

“Traffic’s a nightmare,” Hermann mutters plainly. He begins to rub Newt a little, inching in closer and closer. “We should have gotten out sooner to avoid all this.”

“Yeah.”

Newt’s reply is so soft and breathy, it’s more an act of consent than a response to the statement. He leans back in his seat, his foot falling from the dash and back to the floor, so he can spread his legs as far as the confines of their car will allow. Give Hermann a little more playing field.

“Yeah. Fuck Jacobson.”

“Hmm.” His hand ghosts across Newt’s lap before it returns to his knee, planting itself there. “I’d rather you.”

Newt’s face prickles and he feels a super embarrassing blush start up at the bottom of his jawline, spreading over his cheeks like wild fire.

“Okay, that’s not fair,” he whispers. He shrugs his shoulder up against his cheek, wiping away a little trickle of sweat. “Mmmhow long ‘till we’re home?”

“Patience,” Hermann answers. He even gives his inner thigh a nice little pat, which shoots straight up towards Newt’s groin like he’s made of electricity or something.

“ _Fuck_ traffic _!_ ’

“Indeed.”

“Fuck _you_?”

Hermann laughs so hard, he almost snorts. He looks at Newt once more and presses his hand against the wheel, giving a short little honk. Someone returns the sound, but their truck is still front of them and whoever is driving _whatever_ can piss off.

“I love you, dude,” Newt says, watching Hermann unravel with delight. Hermann takes Newt’s hand and, while still laughing, brings it up to his slightly chapped lips, giving his knuckles a little kiss.

“I love you too.”

They’re gonna get to the front door and Newt’s gonna drop to his knees and make sure Hermann unravels the rest of the way too.

**Author's Note:**

> Very dumb. But I loved it and I love you! Thank you for reading.


End file.
